


Neither a Dogma, Nor an Idea

by kurdapya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Ambiguity, Con Artists, Enemies to Lovers, Excessive use of italics, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, grantaire can be a dick sometimes you know, multiple POVs, or at least enjolras thinks so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 06:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurdapya/pseuds/kurdapya
Summary: Valjean leads an organization of thieves. Javert is obsessed on pinning him down. Enjolras can con his way around everything. Everything but Grantaire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything.
> 
> Title from the brick.  
> "However, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras." - Victor Hugo

**ABC**

 

Enjolras was given a forced leave by Valjean.

"I am only concerned for my top---" Valjean broke off, struggling to find an appropriate term for the man in front of him, and for all of the other people working for him. 

"Thief?" Enjolras supplied matter-of-factly. 

Valjean sighed. He was graying, wrinkling even. Enjolras knew better than to start another argument with the old man. He knew the others were to blame, most specifically, the combined efforts of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. _I don't need a vacation, goddamit._

As if reading his mind, Valjean said, "I know you don't need it, but, Enjolras, you deserve it. Even _thieves_ need a break once in a while." 

Enjolras looked at his employer. Valjean may be old, but he was far from weak. Enjolras was eternally grateful for him for keeping him sane for the past few years. He had led the him into the confines of the ABC, a charity organization on the outside, and a society of international _thieves_ on the inside.

Valjean found him four years ago, astray and nursing a bruised knuckle, trying to appease his heart. Valjean told him that he knew everything about him and there was no need to explain. He only came to help him get back to his feet again. Enjolras had been wanted in different cities then, a record on his name, and glorifyingly enraged.

It was the handwritten invitation that changed his life. The invitation was delivered to his house in London. It was written in a fine, copperplate handwriting: "Join me for tea at the Ritz this afternoon at 4:00? If you will forgive the cliché, I will be wearing a red carnation.” It was signed "Jean Valjean." Enjolras had never heard of him. His first inclination was to ignore the note, but his curiosity got the better of him, and at 4:15 he was at the entrance of the elegant dining hall of the Ritz Hotel. He noticed him immediately. He was in his fifties, Enjolras guessed, an interesting-looking man with a lean, intellectual face. He was dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit and wore a red carnation in his lapel. As Enjolras walked toward his table, he said, "Thank you for accepting my invitation."

"I have a little country house in Hampshire. I'm having a few friends down for the weekend, and I'd be delighted if you would join us," Valjean had told him later on, and there he met the ABC. 

Enjolras looked at the man across him once again and resigned. His friends were right. Valjean was right. He could already see Jehan on his mind's eye patting his cheek saying, "Good boy." He needed to take a break from looking.

Valjean looked at him softly and said, "Queen Elizabeth II, Sunday, 10 A.M."

 

* * *

 

**New York**

 

On the morning of the sailing, Enjolras was dropped off on the pier by Bahorel, clapping his shoulders, admonishing, _Take that stick out of your ass,_ his manic cackling drifting from the open window as he drove away.

When Enjolras arrived at Pier 90, Berth 3, at West Fifty-fifth and Twelfth Avenue, where the QE II was docked, it was crowded with photographers and television reporters. He realized belatedly that  he was going to be sailing with Mestienne and Gribier, two international chess grand masters, the news told him last night. Enjolras brushed past them, showed his passport to a ship's officer at the gangplank, and walked up onto the ship. On deck, a steward looked at Enjolras' ticket and directed him to his stateroom. It was a lovely suite, with a private terrace. He may had been reluctant to take the leave but a niggling thought told him that it was nice to take a break once in a while. 

The QE II was a city, more than nine hundred feet long and thirteen stories high. It had four restaurants, six bars, two ballrooms, two nightclubs, and a "Golden Door Spa at Sea." There were scores of shops, four swimming pools, a gymnasium, a golf driving range, a jogging track. He had reserved a table upstairs in the Princess Grill, which was smaller and more elegant than the main dining room. He barely had been seated when a familiar voice said, "Apollo."

Enjolras looked up, and there he stood. He wanted to cry and punch the dark-haired man at the same time. 

"Of all the places in the world, a cruise ship is where I would find you." There was that same easy, boyish charm that had completely taken him in before.

 _For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on him. He's not going to run away_.... 

Enjolras said hostilely, "What the fuck are you doing here? What are you doing aboard this ship? Shouldn't you be on a riverboat?” _I have been looking for you all these years,_ he didn't say. 

"Apollo..." the other man started, closing his eyes as he sighed tiredly, "I know you may hate me---" 

" _May_ hate you?" he retorted reproachfully, and a little too loudly, judging by the looks he earned from the other diners. " _May?_ Darling, I hate you."

Green eyes watched him as he got up and walked out of the room. "Nice to see you too," he called after him, and if Enjolras heard a touch of sadness in his voice, he ignored it. Four years was too damned long for that.

 

* * *

 

He had dinner in his cabin. As the initial shock and anger had ebbed, he wondered what ill fate had placed the man in his path again. A tiny voice in his head scoffed at that. _Really? You've been looking for him ever since._ He wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. All this time he had been looking for him, taking job after job in the hope that he will get a clue as to where he had ran off to, or went into hiding, he didn't even know. He had so many questions and he still couldn't comprehend the enormity of the situation. All those times and all those efforts, and it was only when he wasn't looking that he finds him. _He found me,_ and Enjolras didn't know whether to be angry about that. 

It was a fantastic night, with a magic canopy of stars sprayed against a velvet sky, his feet taking him to the memories he had kept locked away for a long while. He was standing at the rail, drenched in moonlight, watching the soft phosphorescence of the waves and listening to the sounds of the night wind, when he moved up beside him. "You have no idea how beautiful you look standing there."

He turned to him, choking back a sob, his anger, he didn't know. "Grantaire..." God, how could he ever forget?

Grantaire looked at him, sadness and reverence mixed in the deep pools of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. 

Enjolras was angry, yes. He knew he deserved more than the explanations and reasons Grantaire could ever give him. He knew that he could vanish again, leaving Enjolras wondering and breathless. But he held his anger and bitterness at bay, even just for the night. He let himself be pulled one more time, lips and skin taking him back to where it all started, and where it all ended. Four years was too damned long.

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire sighed once again as he looked at the stoic Enjolras. He understood the animosity and the hatred ingrained in the blue eyes. He had buried himself deep in Enjolras that night, and by the time morning rolled around, the longing and ecstasy rolled with it.

_Fuck, R, I need you._

_Touch me and don't ever let go of me._

_I've missed you._

He fiddled the chain on his neck idly as Enjolras turned to him scathingly. "You are impossible."

Grantaire grinned cockily at him, "I am wild."

It was easy to fall back to their old ways as if the four years wasn't a large chasm that divided the two of them, begging to be noticed, only both of them was either too afraid or too angry to address it.

Enjolras was still the most beautiful man he had ever met, all golden light and righteous fury, and he found himself drowning again, the kind that paintbrushes and bottles were no match for. He ached to touch him, to lay himself open, but of course Enjolras would have none of that, and Grantaire grasped for air. Maybe it would have been easy if he had someone to blame, himself even, but the heavens had forsaken him for he had none.

“How would you like to pick up a small fortune on this voyage?”

Enjolras eyed him speculatively; annoyance on his face, but Grantaire knew him all too well to be swayed by it.

"You're bored," Grantaire barreled on, he knew he had Enjolras' attention however hard he tried to deny it. "I know you, unfortunately for you, and you are restless. Let's do it."

Enjolras faced him with a calculating look, treating him with a silence that both unsettled and turned Grantaire on. "Mestienne and Gribier," he said finally.

Grantaire grinned at him, "Is that a yes?" 

Enjolras looked away for a moment, his attention faraway and he looked almost sad. Grantaire was going to ask him what was wrong when he shook away whatever memory he had in mind and pulled himself back to the present. "What's the plan?"

 

* * *

 

Grantaire was seated next Mestienne in the Double Down Piano Bar. "The man is a fantastic chess player," Grantaire confided to Mestienne. "He's traveling incognito. He thinks he can beat you easily." 

Mestienne laughed aloud. "Nobody beats me---easily or not." 

"He's willing to bet you ten thousand dollars that he can play you and Gribier at the same time and  get a draw with at least one of you."

Mestienne choked on his drink. "What! That's---that's ridiculous! Play two of us at the same time? This---this amateur?" 

"That's right. For ten thousand dollars each." 

"I should do it just to teach the stupid idiot a lesson."

"If you win, the money will be deposited in any country you choose."

A covetous expression flitted across the Russian's face. "I've never even heard of this person. And to play the two of us! My God, he must be insane."

"He has the twenty thousand dollars in cash."

"What nationality is he?" 

"American."

"Ah, that explains it. All rich Americans are crazy." 

Grantaire started to rise. "Well, I guess he'll just have to play Gribier alone."

"Gribier is going to play him?" 

"Yes, didn't I tell you? He wanted to play the two of you, but if you're afraid...”

“Afraid! Mestienne, afraid?" His voice was a roar. "I will destroy him. When is this ridiculous match to take place?"

"He thought perhaps Friday night. The last night out." 

Mestienne was thinking hard. "The best two out of three?"

"No. Only one game."

"For ten thousand dollars?"

"That is correct."

The Russian sighed. "I do not have that much cash with me."

"No problem," Grantaire assured him. "All Mr. Donovan really wants is the glory of playing the great Mestienne. If you lose, you give him a personally autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars."

"Who holds the stakes?" There was a sharp note of suspicion in his voice. 

"The ship's purser."

"Very well," Mestienne decided. "Friday night we will start at ten o'clock, promptly."

"He'll be so pleased," Grantaire assured him.

The following morning Grantaire was talking to Gribier in the gymnasium, where the two men were working out.

"He's an American?" Gribier said. "I should have known. All Americans are cuckoo.”

“He's a great chess player..." 

Gribier made a gesture of contempt. "Great is not good enough. Best is what counts. And I am the best." 

"That's why he's so eager to play against you. If you lose, you give him an autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars in cash..."

"Gribier does not play amateurs."

 "...deposited in any country you like." 

"Out of the question."

"Well, then, I guess he'll have to play only Mestienne."

"What? Are you saying Mestienne has agreed to play against this amateur?"

"Of course. But he was hoping to play you both at once." 

"I've never heard of anything so---so---" Gribier sputtered, at a loss for words. "The arrogance! Who is he that he thinks he can defeat the two top chess masters in the world? He must have escaped from some lunatic asylum."

"He's a little erratic," Grantaire confessed, "but his money is good. All cash."

"You said ten thousand dollars for defeating him?" 

"That's right."

"And Mestienne gets the same amount?"

"If he defeats him.”

“Gribier grinned. "Oh, he will defeat him. And so will I."

"Just between us, I wouldn't be a bit surprised." 

"Who will hold the stakes?"

"The ship's purser."

 _Why should Mestienne be the only one to take money from this lunatic_ _?_   thought Gribier.

"My friend, you have a deal. Where and when?"

"Friday night. Ten o'clock. The Queen's Room."

Gribier smiled wolfishly. "I will be there.”

Grantaire had made all the arrangements with the ship's purser. He had given the purser the stakes to hold---$20,000 in traveler's checks---and asked him to set up two chess tables for Friday evening. The word spread rapidly throughout the ship, and passengers kept approaching Grantaire--- _Mr. Polk----_ to ask if the matches were actually going to take place.

"Absolutely," Grantaire assured all who inquired. "It's incredible. Poor Mr. Donovan believes he can win. In fact, he's betting on it." 

"I wonder," a passenger asked, "If I might place a small bet?" 

"Certainly. As much money as you like. Mr. Donovan is asking only ten-to-one odds." 

A million-to-one odds would have made more sense. From the moment the first bet was accepted, the floodgates opened. It seemed that everyone on board, including the engine-room crew and the ship's officers, wanted to place bets on the game. The amounts varied from five dollars to five thousand dollars and every single bet was on the Russian and the Romanian.

The suspicious purser reported to the captain. "I've never seen anything like it, sir. It's a stampede. Nearly all the passengers have placed wagers. I must be holding two hundred thousand dollars in bets."

The captain studied him thoughtfully. "You say Mr. Donovan is going to play Mestienne and Gribier at the same time?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Have you verified that the two men are really Mestienne and Gribier?"

 "Oh, yes, of course, sir."

"There's no chance they would deliberately throw the chess game, is there?"

"Not with their egos. I think they'd rather die first. And if they lost to this man, that's probably exactly what would happen to them when they got home."

The captain ran his fingers through his hair, a puzzled frown on his face. "Do you know anything about this Donovan or this Polk?"

"Not a thing, sir. As far as I can determine, they're traveling separately." The captain made his decision. 

"It smells like some kind of con game, and ordinarily I would put a stop to it. However, I happen to be a bit of an expert myself, and if there was one thing I'd stake my life on, it's the fact that there is no way to cheat at chess. Let the match go on." He walked over to his desk and withdrew a black leather wallet. "Put down fifty pounds for me. On the masters."

 

* * *

 

By 9:00 Friday evening the Queen's Room was packed with passengers from first class, those who had sneaked in from second and third class, and the ship's officers and members of the crew who were off duty. At Grantaire's request, two rooms had been set up for the tournament. One table was in the center of the Queen's Room, and the other table was  in the adjoining salon. Curtains had been drawn to separate the two rooms.

"So that the players aren't distracted by each other," Grantaire explained. "And we would like the spectators to remain in whichever room they choose." Velvet ropes had been placed  around the two tables to keep the crowds back. The spectators were about to witness something they were sure they would never see again. They knew nothing about the young American man, except that it would be impossible for him---or anyone else---to play the great Mestienne and Gribier simultaneously and obtain a draw with either of them. Grantaire introduced Enjolras---Aaron Donovan---to the two grand masters shortly before the game was to begin.

Gribier looked him over carefully. "Have you won all the national tournaments you have played in?" he asked. 

"Yes," Enjolras replied truthfully. 

He shrugged. "I have never heard of you."

Mestienne was equally rude. "You Americans do not know what to do with your money," he said. "I wish to thank you in advance. My winnings will make my family very happy." 

Enjolras' eyes were green jade. "You haven't won, yet, Mr. Mestienne." Mestienne's laugh boomed out through the room. "My dear boy, I don't know who you are, but I know who I am. I am the great Mestienne."

It was 10:00. Grantaire looked around and saw that both salons had filled up with spectators. "It's time for the match to start."

Mestienne turned to the expectant crowd and grinned. He made a hissing noise at a steward. "Bring me a brandy." 

"In order to be fair to everyone," Grantaire had said to Mestienne, "I suggest that you play the white so that you go first, and in the game with Mr. Gribier, Mr. Donovan will play the white and he will go first." Both grand masters agreed. 

While the audience stood hushed, Mestienne reached across the board and played the queen's gambit decline opening, moving his queen pawn two squares. _I'm not simply going to beat this boy. I'm going to crush him._ He glanced up at Enjolras. He studied the board, nodded, and stood up, without moving a piece. A steward cleared the way through the crowd as Enjolras walked into the second salon, where Gribier was seated at a table waiting for him. There were at least a hundred people crowding the room as Enjolras took his seat opposite Gribier. 

"Ah, my little pigeon. Have you defeated Mestienne yet?" Gribier laughed uproariously at his joke.

"I'm working on it, Mr. Gribier," Enjolras said quietly.

He reached forward and moved his white queen's pawn two squares. Gribier looked up at him and grinned. He had arranged for a massage in one hour, but he planned to finish this game before then. He reached down and moved his black queen's pawn two squares. Enjolras studied the board a moment, then rose. The steward escorted him back to Mestienne.

Enjolras sat down at the table and moved his black queen's pawn two squares. In the background he saw Grantaire's almost imperceptible nod of approval. Without hesitation, Mestienne moved his white queen's bishop pawn two squares.

Two minutes later, at Gribier's table, Enjolras moved his white queen's bishop two squares.

Gribier played his king's pawn square.

Enjolras rose and returned to the room where Mestienne was waiting. Enjolras played his king's pawn square. 

 _So! He is not a complete amateur_ , Mestienne thought in surprise. _Let us see what he does with this._ He played his queen's knight to queen's bishop 3. Enjolras watched his move, nodded, and returned to Gribier, where he copied Mestienne's move.

Gribier moved the queen's bishop pawn two squares, and Enjolras went back to Mestienne and repeated Gribier's move.

With growing astonishment, the two grand masters realized they were up against a brilliant opponent. No matter how clever their moves, this amateur managed to counteract them.

Because they were separated, Mestienne and Gribier had no idea that, in effect; they were playing against each other. Every move that Mestienne made with Enjolras, Enjolras repeated with Gribier. And when Gribier countered with a move, Enjolras used that move against Mestienne. 

By the time the grand masters entered the middle game, they were no longer smug. They were fighting for their reputations. They paced the floor while they contemplated moves and puffed furiously on cigarettes. Enjolras appeared to be the only calm one.

In the beginning, in order to end the game quickly, Mestienne had tried a knight's sacrifice to allow his white bishop to put pressure on the black king's side. Enjolras had carried the move to Gribier. Gribier had examined the move carefully, and then refuted the sacrifice by covering his exposed side, and when Gribier had sacked a bishop to advance a rook to white's seventh rank, Mestienne had refuted it before the black rook could damage his pawn structure.

There was no stopping Enjolras. The game had been going on for four hours, and not one person in either audience had stirred. 

Every grand master carries in his head hundreds of games played by other grand masters. It was as this particular match was going into the end game that both Mestienne and Gribier recognized the hallmark of the other. _The little shit,_ Mestienne thought. _He has studied with Gribier_. _He has tutored him_. And Gribier thought, _He is Mestienne's protegee. The bastard has taught him his game._

The harder they fought Enjolras, the more they came to realize there was simply no way they could beat him. The match was appearing drawish. In the sixth hour of play, at 4:00 A.M., when the players had reached the end game, the pieces on each board had been reduced to three pawns, one rook, and a king. There was no way for either side to win. Mestienne studied the board for a long time, then took a deep, choked breath and said, "I offer a draw." Over the hubbub, Enjolras said, "I accept."

 The crowd went wild.

Enjolras rose and made his way through the crowd into the next room. As he started to take his seat, Gribier, in a strangled voice said, "I offer a draw." And the uproar from the other room was repeated. The crowd could not believe what it had just witnessed. A young man had come out of nowhere to simultaneously stalemate the two greatest chess masters in the world.

Grantaire appeared at Enjolras' side. "Come on," he grinned. "We both need a drink." When they left, Mestienne and Gribier were sill slumped in their chairs, mindlessly staring at their boards.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire was on the way to his stateroom when he encountered one of the ship's officers.

"Good show, Mr. Polk. The word about the match has already gone out over the wireless. I imagine the press will be meeting you both at Southampton. Are you Mr. Donovan's manager?" 

"No, we're just shipboard acquaintances," Grantaire said easily, but his mind was racing. If he and Enjolras were linked together, it would look like a setup. There could even be an investigation. _He'll find me. He'll find Enjolras._ He decided to collect the money before any suspicions were aroused. 

Grantaire wrote a note to Enjolras: 

HAVE PICKED UP MONEY AND WILL MEET YOU FOR A CELEBRATION BREAKFAST AT THE SAVOY HOTEL. YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT. R. 

He sealed it in an envelope and handed it to a steward. "Please see that Mr. Donovan gets this first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir." 

Grantaire headed for the purser's office.

“Sorry to bother you," Grantaire apologized, "but we'll be docking in a few hours, and I know how busy you're going to be, so I wondered whether you'd mind paying me off now?”

“No trouble at all," the purser smiled. "Your friend is really a wizard, isn't he?"

"He certainly is," and he couldn't help the admiration creeping into his voice.

"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Polk, where in the world did he learn to play chess like that?"

Grantaire leaned close and confided, "I heard he studied with Bobby Fischer." The purser took two large manila envelopes out of the safe.

 "This is a lot of cash to carry around. Would you like me to give you a check for this amount?"

"No, don't bother. The cash will be fine," Grantaire assured him. "I wonder if you could do me a favor? The mail boat comes out to meet the ship before it docks, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir. We're expecting it at six A.M."

 "I'd appreciate it if you could arrange for me to leave on the mail boat. My mother is seriously ill, and I'd like to get to her before it's"---his voice dropped---"before it's too late."

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr. Polk. Of course I can handle that for you. I'll make the arrangements with customs."

He was going to leave him again, and Grantaire knew Enjolras would never live that down. But he didn't have a choice. If they got wind that they were in the QE II together... He shook himself. He didn't want to think about that.

 

* * *

 

At 6:15 A.M. Grantaire, with the two envelopes carefully stashed away in his suitcase, climbed down the ship's ladder into the mail boat. He turned to take one last look at the outline of the huge ship towering above him. The passengers on the liner were sound asleep. Grantaire would be on the dock long before the QE II landed. "It was a beautiful voyage," Grantaire said to one of the crewmen on the mail boat.

 "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" a voice agreed.

Grantaire turned around. Enjolras was seated on a coil of rope, soft curls blowing softly around his face.

 "Enj! What are you doing here?"

 "What do you think I'm doing?"

He saw the expression on his face. "Wait a minute! You didn't think I was going to run out on you?"

"Why would I think that?" His tone was bitter.

 "Darling, I left a note for you. I was going to meet you at the Savoy and---"

 "Of course you were," he said cuttingly.

 

* * *

 

**London**

 

In Enjolras' suite at the Savoy, he watched carefully as Grantaire tried to explain, but Enjolras didn't want to hear it. He was tired. He felt betrayed, and to think that he was actually starting to forgive him. 

Grantaire said, "You know, you're wrong about me, Enjolras. I wish you'd give me a chance to explain. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

He hesitated, and then nodded. "All right."

"Good. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock."

 

* * *

 

When Grantaire arrived at the hotel that evening and asked for an Aaron Donovan, the room clerk said, "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Donovan checked out early this afternoon. He left no forwarding address.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't own anything.

**New York**

**8 years ago**

 

Enjolras had already been out of prison for a couple of months, reigning free two years into his 15-year sentence for exemplary behavior. He hadn't been able to prove to the warden, to the court, and to anyone who would listen that he had been framed. The gun had his name on it, blood was spilled, and that was it. Enjolras' life took a complete over turn. The lawsuit against Patron-Minette would've shook the world, and it did, only, his world was the only one shaken.

Enjolras had looked at New York with the hope that it could give him a chance to start over. But he had only jumped out of the pan, and into the fire. He found that New York, or anywhere for that matter, had no place for someone like him.

After decrepit theaters, dilapidated offices of even more questionable business, and even run-down shops either turning him down, throwing him away or shutting their doors at a mere internet search of him, he took out the business card that one of the friendlier inmates gave him. _To help you get by._

JONDRETTE

JEWELER, 640 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

Enjolras was willing to bet the clothes on his back that Jondrette wasn't a jeweler.

 

* * *

 

 

Jondrette was a jeweler, but was also something else.

“It's ridiculously simple," Jondrette was saying. "A client of mine, Lois Hucheloup, has gone to Europe. Her house is in Sea Cliff, on Long Island. On weekends the servants are off, so there's no one there. A private patrol makes a check every four hours. You can be in and out of the house in a few minutes." They were seated in Jondrette's office at the back of his jewelry shop.

"I know the alarm system, and I have the combination to the safe. All you have to do is walk in, pick up the jewels, and walk out again. You bring the jewels to me, I take them out of their settings, recut the larger ones, and sell them again." 

"If it's so simple, why don't you do it yourself?" Enjolras asked bluntly.

Jondrette's dark eyes twinkled. "Because I'm going to be out of town on business. Whenever one of these little 'incidents' occurs, I'm always out of town on business."

"I see.”

“If you have any scruples about the robbery hurting Mrs. Hucheloup you needn't have. She's really quite a horrible woman, who has houses all over the world filled with expensive goodies. Besides, she's insured for twice the amount the jewels are worth. Naturally, I did all the appraisals." Enjolras sat there looking at Jondrette, thinking, _l must be crazy. I'm sitting here calmly discussing a jewel robbery with this man._

"I don't want to go back to prison, Mr. Jondrette."

"There's no danger of that. Not one of my people has ever been caught. Not while they were working for me. Well... what do you say?"

That was obvious. He was going to say no. The whole idea was insane. "You said twenty-five thousand dollars?"

"Cash on delivery."

It was a fortune, enough to take care of him until he could figure out what to do with his life. He thought of the dreary little room he lived in, of the screaming tenants, and the customer yelling, "I don't want a murderer waiting on me," and the assistant manager saying, "We're going to have to call in the police to investigate."

But Enjolras still could not bring himself to say yes.

"I would suggest this Saturday night," Jondrette said. "The staff leaves at noon on Saturdays. I'll arrange a driver's license and a credit card for you in a false name.

You'll rent a car here in Manhattan and drive out to Long Island, arriving at eleven o'clock. You'll pick up the jewelry, drive back to New York, and return the car.... You do drive, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. There's a train leaving for St. Louis at seven-forty-five A.M. I'll reserve a compartment for you. I'll meet you at the station in St. Louis, you'll turn over the jewels, and I'll give you your twenty-five thousand."

He made it all sound so simple.

This was the moment to say no, to get up and walk out. Walk out to where? "I'll need a red wig," Enjolras said slowly.

 

***

 

When Enjolras had left, Jondrette sat in the dark in his office, thinking about him.  Perhaps he should have warned him that he was not really that familiar with that particular burglar-alarm system.

 

* * *

 

 

With the thousand dollars that Jondrette advanced him, Enjolras purchased two wigs---one red and one black. He bought a dark-blue suit, black coveralls, and a valise from a street vendor on Lexington Avenue. So far everything was going smoothly. As Jondrette had promised, Enjolras received an envelope containing a driver's license in the name of Leonard Chase, a diagram of the security system in the Hucheloup house, the combination to the bedroom safe, and an Amtrak ticket to St. Louis, in a private compartment. Enjolras packed his few belongings and left. _I'll never live in a place like this again_ , Enjolras promised himself. He rented a car and headed for Long Island. He was on his way to commit a burglary.

What he was doing had the unreality of a dream, and he was terrified. What if he was caught? Was the risk worth what he was about to do? _It's ridiculously simple_ , Jondrette had said.

He wouldn't be involved in anything like this if he wasn't sure about it. Jondrette had his reputation to protect. _I have a reputation, too_ , Enjolras thought bitterly, and it's all bad. _Any time a piece of jewelry is missing, I'll be guilty until proven innocent_.

Enjolras knew what he was doing: He was trying to work himself up into a rage, trying to psych himself up to commit a crime. It did not work. By the time he reached Sea Cliff, he was a nervous wreck. Twice, he almost ran the car off the road. _Maybe the police will pick me up for reckless driving_ , he thought hopefully, _and I can tell Mr. Jondrette that things went wrong._ But there was not a police car in sight. _Sure_ , Enjolras thought, in disgust. They're never around when you need them.

He headed toward Long Island, following Jondrette's directions. _The house is right on the water._ _It's called the Embers. It's an old Victorian mansion. You can't miss it._

 _Please let me miss it_ , Enjolras prayed.

But there it was, looming up out of the dark like some ogre's castle in a nightmare. It looked deserted. _How dare the servants take the weekend off_ , Enjolras thought indignantly. _They should all be discharged._

He drove the car behind a stand of giant willow trees, where it was hidden from view, and turned off the engine, listening to the nocturnal sounds of insects. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The house was off the main road, and there was no traffic at that time of night.

_The property is screened by trees, my dear, and the  nearest neighbor is acres away, so you don't have to be concerned about being seen. The security patrol makes its check at ten P.M. and again at two A.M. You'll be long gone by the two A.M. check._

Enjolras looked at his watch. It was 11:00. The first patrol had gone. He had three hours before the patrol was due to arrive for its second check. Or three seconds to turn the car around and head back to New York and forget about this insanity. But head back to what? The images flashed unbidden into his mind. The assistant manager at Saks:

"I'm terribly sorry, but our customers must be humored...."

"You can forget about running a computer. They're not going to hire anybody with a record...."

"Twenty-five thousand tax-free dollars for an hour or two.. If you have scruples, she's really a horrible woman."

 _What am I doing?_ Enjolras thought. _I'm not a burglar. Not a real one. I'm a dumb amateur who's about to have a nervous breakdown_.

_If I had half a brain, I'd get away from here while there's still time. Before the SWAT team catches me and there's a shoot-out and they carry my riddled body to the morgue. l can see the headline: DANGEROUS CRIMINAL KILLED DURING BUNGLED BURGLARY ATTEMPT._

Who would be there to cry at his funeral? His decrepit reputation and a state record. Enjolras looked at his watch. Enjolras had been sitting there, daydreaming, for twenty minutes. _If I'm going to do it, I'd better move._

He could not move. Enjolras was frozen with fear. _I can't sit here forever_ , Enjolras told himself. _Why don't I just go take a look at the house? A quick look._ Enjolras took a deep breath and got out of the car. Enjolras was wearing black coveralls; his knees were shaking. Enjolras approached the house slowly, and Enjolras could see that it was completely dark.

 _Be sure to wear gloves_.

Enjolras reached in his pocket, took out a pair of gloves, and put them on. _Oh, God, I'm doing it,_ Enjolras thought. _I'm really going ahead with it._ His heart was pounding so loudly Enjolras could no longer hear any other sounds. _The alarm is to the left of the front door. There are five buttons. The red light will be on, which means the alarm is activated. The code to turn it off is three-two-four-one-one. When the red light goes off, you'll know the alarm is deactivated. Here's the key to the front door. When you enter, be sure to close the door after you. Use this flashlight. Don't turn on any of the lights in the house in case someone happens to drive past. The master bedroom is upstairs, to your left, overlooking the bay. You'll find the safe behind a portrait of Mme. Hucheloup. It's a very simple safe. All you have to do is follow this combination._ Enjolras stood stock-still, trembling, ready to flee at the slightest sound. Silence.

Slowly, Enjolras reached out and pressed the sequence of alarm buttons, praying that it would not work. The red light went out. The next step would commit him. Enjolras remembered that airplane pilots had a phrase for it: the point of no return.

Enjolras put the key in the lock, and the door swung open. He waited a full minute before he stepped inside. Every nerve in his body throbbed to a savage beat as Enjolras stood in the hallway, listening, afraid to move. The house was filled with a deserted silence. He took out a flashlight, turned it on, and saw the staircase. Enjolras moved forward and started up. All he wanted to do now was get it over with as quickly as possible and run.

The upstairs hallway looked eerie in the glow of his flashlight, and the wavering beam made the walls seem to pulse back and forth. Enjolras peered into each room he passed. They were all empty.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, looking out over the bay, just as Jondrette had described it. The bedroom was beautiful, done in dusky pink, with a canopied  bed and a commode decorated with pink roses. There were two love seats, a fireplace, and a table in front of it for dining. Enjolras walked over to the picture window and looked out at the distant boats anchored in the bay.

_Tell me, God, what made you decide that Mme. Hucheloup should live in this beautiful house and that I should be here robbing it?_

_Come on, Enjolras_ , he told himself, _don't get philosophical. This is a one-time thing. It will be over in a few minutes, but not if you stand here doing nothing._ Enjolras turned from the window and walked over to the portrait Jondrette had described. Mme. Hucheloup had a hard, arrogant look. _It's true. She does look like a horrible woman._ The painting swung outward, away from the wall, and behind it was a small safe. Enjolras had memorized the combination. _Three turns to the right, stop at forty-two. Two turns to the left, stop at ten. One turn to the right, stop at thirty_. His hands were trembling so much that Enjolras had to start over twice, then he heard a click. The door was open.

The safe was filled with thick envelopes and papers, but Enjolras ignored them. At the back, resting on a small shelf, was a chamois jewelry bag. Enjolras reached for it and lifted it from the shelf. At that instant the burglar alarm went off, and it was the loudest sound he had ever heard. It seemed to reverberate from every corner of the house, screaming out its warning. Enjolras stood there, paralyzed, in shock.

What had gone wrong? Had Jondrette not known about the alarm inside the safe that was activated when the jewels were removed?

He had to get out quickly. He scooped the chamois bag into his pocket and started running toward the stairs. And then, over the sound of the alarm, Enjolras heard another sound, the sound of an approaching siren. He stood at the top of the staircase, terrified, his heart racing, his mouth dry.

He hurried to a window, raised the curtain, and peered out. A black-and-white patrol car was pulling up in front of the house. As he watched, a uniformed policeman ran toward the back of the house, while a second one moved toward the front door. There was no escape. The alarm bells were still clanging, and suddenly they sounded like the terrible bells in the corridors of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary.

 _No!_ thought Enjolras. _I won't let them send me back there._

The front doorbell shrilled.

 

* * *

 

 

Lieutenant Bonaparte had been on the Sea Cliff police force for ten years. Sea Cliff was a quiet town, and the main activity of the police was handling vandalism, a few car thefts, and occasional Saturday-night drunken brawls. The setting-off of the Hucheloup alarm was in a different category. It was the type of criminal activity for which Lieutenant Bonaparte had joined the force. He knew Lois Hucheloup and was aware of what a valuable collection of paintings and jewelry she owned. With her away, he had made it a point to check the house from time to time, for it was a tempting target for a cat burglar. _And now_ , Lieutenant Bonaparte thought, _it looks like I've caught one_. He had been only two blocks away when the radio call had come in from the security company. _This is going to look good on my record._

_Damned good._

Lieutenant Bonaparte pressed the front doorbell again. He wanted to be able to state in his report that he had rung it three times before making a forcible entry. His partner was covering the back, so there was no chance of the burglar's escaping. He would probably try to conceal himself on the premises, but he was in for a surprise. No one could hide from Bonaparte. As the lieutenant reached for the bell for the third time, the front door suddenly opened. The policeman stood there staring. In the doorway was a woman dressed in a filmy nightgown. _Man_. He kicked himself mentally for that. His face was covered with a mudpack, and his hair was tucked into a curler cap. He demanded, "What on earth is going on?" in a haughty tone that smacked Bonaparte in the face.

Lieutenant Bonaparte swallowed. "I... who are you?"

"I'm Leonard Chase. I'm a houseguest of auntie Lois. She's away in Europe."

"I know that." The lieutenant was confused. "She didn't tell us she was having a houseguest."

The man in the doorway nodded knowingly, arrogantly like he was wasting his time. "Isn't that  just like auntie? Excuse me, I can't stand that noise.”

As Lieutenant Bonaparte watched, Lois Hucheloup's houseguest reached over to the alarm buttons, pressed a sequence of numbers, and the sound stopped. "That's better," he sighed. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you." He laughed. "I was just getting ready for bed when the alarm went off. I was sure there were burglars in the house, and I'm all alone here. The servants left at noon."

"Do you mind if we look around?"

"Please, I insist!"

It took the lieutenant and his partner only a few minutes to make sure there was no one lurking on the premises.

"All clear," Lieutenant Bonaparte said. "False alarm. Something must have set it off. Can't always depend on these electronic things. I'd call the security company and have them check out the system."

"I most certainly will."

"Well, guess we'd better be running along," the lieutenant said.

"Thank you so much for coming by. I feel much safer now."

He wondered what he looked like under that mudpack and without the curler cap. "Will you be staying here long, Mister Chase?”

“Another week or two, until auntie returns."

"If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

"Thank you, I will."

Enjolras watched as the police car drove away into the night. He felt faint with relief. When the car was out of sight, he hurried upstairs, washed off the mudpack he had found in the bathroom, stripped off the curler cap and nightgown, changed into his own black coveralls, and left by the front door, carefully resetting the alarm.

 

***

 

It was not until Enjolras was halfway back to Manhattan that the audacity of what he had done struck him. He giggled, and the giggle turned into a shaking, uncontrollable laughter, until he finally had to pull the car off onto the side of the road. He laughed until the tears streamed down his face. It was the first time he had laughed in a year. It felt wonderful.

 

* * *

 

 

It was not until the Amtrak train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station that Enjolras began to relax. At every second he had expected a heavy hand to grip his shoulder, a voice to say, "You're under arrest."

He had carefully watched the other passengers as they boarded the train, and there was nothing alarming about them. Still, Enjolras' shoulders were knots of tension. He kept assuring himself that it was unlikely anyone would have discovered the burglary this soon, and even if they had, there was nothing to connect him with it. Jondrette would be waiting in St. Louis with $25,000.

In a curious way, the experience he had just gone through had made Enjolras feel like a different person. It was as though he had been reborn.

He locked the door to the compartment and took out the chamois bag and opened it. A cascade of glittering colors spilled into his hands. There were three large diamond rings, an emerald pin, a sapphire bracelet, three pairs of earrings, and two necklaces, one of rubies, one of pearls. .

Now, seated in his compartment on the train to St. Louis, Enjolras allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He had enjoyed outwitting the police. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about being on the edge of danger.

He felt daring and clever and invincible. He felt absolutely great. There was a knock at the door of his compartment. Enjolras hastily put the jewels back into the chamois bag and placed the bag in his suitcase. He took out his train ticket and unlocked the compartment door for the conductor. Two men in gray suits stood in the corridor. One appeared to be in his middle twenties, the other one about ten years older. The younger man was attractive, with the build of an athlete. He had a strong chin, a small, neat mustache, and wore horn-rimmed glasses behind which were intelligent blue eyes. The older man had a thick head of  black hair and was heavy-set. His eyes were a cold brown.

"Can I help you?" Enjolras asked.

"Yes, sir," the older man replied. He pulled out a wallet and held up an identification card:

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

"I'm Special Agent Dennis Fraser. This is Special Agent George Polk."

Enjolras' mouth was suddenly dry. He forced a smile. "I--- I'm afraid I don't understand. Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid there is, sir," the younger agent said. He had a soft, southern accent. "A few minutes ago this train crossed into New Jersey. Transporting stolen merchandise across a state line is a federal offense." Enjolras felt suddenly faint. A red film appeared in front of his eyes, blurring everything.

The older man, Dennis Fraser, was saying, "Would you open your luggage, please?" It was not a question but an order.

His only hope was to try to bluff it out. "Of course I won't! How dare you come barging into my compartment like this!" His voice was filled with indignation. "Is that all you have to do---go around bothering innocent citizens? I'm going to call the conductor."

"We've already spoken to the conductor," Polk said.

His bluff was not working. "Do---do you have a search warrant?"

The younger man said gently, "We don't need a search warrant, Mr. Enjolras. We're apprehending you during the commission of a crime." They even knew his name. He was trapped. There was no way out. None.

Polk was at his suitcase, opening it. It was useless to try to stop him. Enjolras watched as he reached inside and pulled out the chamois bag. He opened it, looked at his partner, and nodded. Enjolras sank down onto the seat, suddenly too weak to stand.

Fraser took a list from his pocket, checked the contents of the bag against the list, and put the bag in his pocket. "It's all here, George."

"How---how did you find out?" Enjolras asked miserably.

"We're not permitted to give out any information," Fraser replied. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and to have an attorney present before you say anything. Anything you say now may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand?”

His answer was a whispered, "Yes."

George Polk said, "I'm sorry about this. I mean, I know about your background, and I'm really sorry."

"For Christ's sake," the older man said, "this isn't a social visit."

"I know, but still---"

The older man held out a pair of handcuffs to Enjolras. "Hold your wrists, please."

Enjolras felt his heart twisting in agony. He remembered the airport in New Orleans when they had handcuffed him, the staring faces. "Please! Do you---do you have to do that?"

"Yes, sir."

The younger man said, "Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Dennis?"

Dennis Fraser shrugged. "Okay."

The two men stepped outside into the corridor. Enjolras sat there, dazed, filled with despair. He could hear snatches of their conversation. "For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on him. He's not going to run away...."

"When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have..."

"Come on. Give him a break. He's embarrassed enough, and..."

"That's nothing to what he's going to...”

He could not hear the rest of the conversation. He did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.

In a moment they returned to the compartment. The older man seemed angry. "All right," he said. "We're not cuffing you. We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment. Is that clear?"

Enjolras nodded, too miserable to speak.

The younger man, George Polk, gave him a sympathetic shrug, as though to say, "I wish there was something more I could do."

There was nothing anyone could do. Not now. It was too late. He had been caught red-handed. Somehow the police had traced her and informed the FBI. The agents were outside in the corridor talking to the conductor. Polk pointed to Enjolras and said something he could not hear. The conductor nodded. Polk closed the door of the compartment, and to Enjolras, it was like a cell door slamming.

The countryside sped by, flashing vignettes briefly framed by the window, but Enjolras was unaware of the scenery. He sat there, paralyzed by fear. There was a roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with the sounds of the train. He would get no second chance. He was a convicted felon. They would give him the maximum sentence, and this time there would be no warden's daughter to rescue, there would be nothing but the deadly, endless years of prison facing him.

How had they caught him? The only person who knew about the robbery was Jondrette, and he could have no possible reason to turn him and the jewelry over to the FBI. Possibly some clerk in his store had learned of the plan and tipped off the police. But how it happened made no difference. He had been caught. At the next stop he would be on his way to prison again. There would be a preliminary hearing and then the trial, and then.... Enjolras squeezed his eyes tightly shut, refusing to think about it any further. He felt hot tears brush his cheeks.

 

***

 

The train began to lose speed. Enolras started to hyperventilate. He could not get enough air. The two FBI agents would be coming for him at any moment. A station came into view, and a few seconds later the train jerked to a  stop. It was time to go. Enjolras closed his suitcase, put on his coat, and sat down. If he stayed on the train, they would accuse him of trying to run away from them, and it would make things even worse. Enjolras grabbed his suitcase, opened the compartment door, and hurried out into the corridor.

The conductor was approaching. "Are you getting off here, sir?" he asked. "You'd better hurry. Let me help you. Your brothers already left."

"My brothers-?"

"Nice chaps. They seemed really concerned about you."

The world was spinning around. Everything was topsy-turvy.

The conductor carried the suitcase to the end of the car. The train began to move.

"Do you know where my brothers went?" Enjolras called.

"No, sir. They jumped into a taxi when the train stopped." With a million dollars' worth of stolen jewelry.

 

***

 

Enjolras headed for the airport. It was the only place he could think of. If the men had taken a taxi, it meant they did not have their own transportation, and they would surely want to get out of town as fast as possible. He sat back in the cab, filled with rage at what they had done to him and with shame at how easily they had conned him. _Oh, they were good, both of them. Really good. They had been so convincing_. He blushed to think how he had fallen for the ancient good cop-bad cop routine.

_For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on him. He's not going to run away...._

_When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have_....

The Bureau? They were probably both fugitives from the law. Well, he was going to get those jewels back. He had gone through too much to be outwitted by two con artists. He had to get to the airport in time.

He leaned forward in her seat and said to the driver, "Could you go faster, please!"

 

***

 

They were standing in the boarding line at the departure gate, and he did not recognize them immediately. The younger man, who had called himself George Polk, no longer wore glasses, his eyes had changed from blue to green, and his mustache was gone. The other man, Dennis Fraser, who had had thick black hair, was now totally blonde. But still, there was no mistaking them. They had not had time to change their clothes. They were almost at the boarding gate when Enjolras reached them.

"You forgot something," Enjolras said.

They turned to look at him, startled. The younger man frowned. "What are you doing here? A car from the Bureau was supposed to have been at the station to pick you up." His southern accent was gone.

"Then why don't we go back and find it?" Enjolras suggested.

"Can't. We're on another case," Fraser explained. "We have to catch this plane."

"Give me back the jewelry, first," Enjolras demanded.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," George Polk told him. "It's evidence. We'll send you a receipt for it."

"No. I don't want a receipt. I want the jewelry."

"Sorry," said Fraser. "We can't let it out of our possession." They had reached the gate. Fraser handed his boarding pass to the attendant. Enjolras looked around, desperate, and saw an airport policeman standing nearby. He called out, "Officer! Officer!"

The two men looked at each other, startled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Fraser hissed. "Do you want to get us all arrested?"

The policeman was moving toward them. "Yes, sir? Any problem?"

"Oh, no problem," Enjolras said gaily. "These two wonderful gentlemen found some valuable jewelry I lost, and they're returning it to me. I was afraid I was going to have to go to the FBI about it."

The two men exchanged a frantic look.

"They suggested that perhaps you wouldn't mind escorting me to a taxi."

"Certainly. Be happy to."

Enjolras turned toward the men. "It's safe to give the bag to me now. This nice officer will take care of me."

"No, really," George Polk objected. "It would be much better if we---"

"Oh, no, I insist," Enjolras urged. "I know how important it is for you to catch your plane."

The two men looked at the policeman, and then at each other, helpless. There was nothing they could do. Reluctantly, George Polk pulled the chamois bag from his pocket.

“That's it!" Enjolras said. He took the bag from his hand, opened it, and looked inside. "Thank goodness. It's all here."

George Polk made one last-ditch try. "Why don't we keep it safe for you until---"

"That won't be necessary," Enjolras said cheerfully. He opened his bag, put the smaller bag inside, and took out two $5.00 bills. He handed one to each of the men. "Here's a little token of my appreciation for what you've done."

The other passengers had all departed through the gate. The airline attendant said, "That was the last call. You'll have to board now, gentlemen."

"Thank you again," Enjolras beamed as he walked away with the policeman at his side. "It's so rare to find an honest person these days."

 

* * *

 

 

George Polk sat at the plane window looking out as the aircraft took off. He raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and his shoulders heaved up and down.

Dennis Fraser seated next to him, looked at him in surprise. "Hey," he said, "It's only money. It's nothing to cry about."

He turned to him with tears streaming down his face, and the other man, to his astonishment, saw that he was convulsed with laughter. "Fuck, 'Parnasse," he wheezed in between bouts if his laughter, "we've just been conned!"

"What the hell's the matter with you, Grantaire?" Fraser--Montparnasse--demanded. "It's nothing to laugh about, either."

To Grantaire, it was. The manner in which Enjolras had outwitted them at the airport was the most ingenius con he had ever witnessed. A scam on top of a scam. Jondrette had told them the man was an amateur. _My God,_ Grantaire thought, _what would he be like if he was_ _a professional?_

Enjolras was without doubt the most beautiful man Grantaire had ever seen. And clever. Grantaire prided himself on being the best confidence artist in the business, and Enjolras had outsmarted him. _Le Gros would have loved him,_ Grantaire thought.

 

* * *

 

 

It was Le Gros who had educated Grantaire. Grantaire's mother was the trusting heiress to a farm-equipment fortune, married to an improvident schemer filled with get-rich-quick projects that never quite worked out. Grantaire's father was a charmer, darkly handsome and persuasively glib, and in the first five years of marriage he had managed to run through his wife's inheritance. Grantaire's earliest memories were of his mother and father quarreling about money and his father's extramarital affairs. It was a bitter marriage, and the young boy had resolved, _I'm never going to get married. Never._

His father's brother, Le Gros, owned a small traveling carnival, and whenever he was near Marion, Ohio, where the they lived, he came to visit them. He was the most cheerful man Grantaire had ever known, filled with optimism and promises of a rosy tomorrow. He always managed to bring the boy exciting gifts, and he taught Grantaire wonderful magic tricks. Le Gros had started out as a magician at a carnival and had taken it over when it went broke. When Grantaire was fourteen, his mother died in an automobile accident. Two months later his father married a nineteen-year-old cocktail waitress. "It isn't natural for a man to live by himself," his father had explained. But the box was filled with a deep resentment, feeling betrayed by his father's callousness. His father had been hired as a siding  salesman and was on the road three days a week. One night when Grantaire was alone in the house with his stepmother, he was awakened by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Moments later he felt a soft, naked body next to his. He sat up in alarm.

"Hold me, baby," his stepmother whispered. "I'm afraid of thunder."

"It---it isn't thundering," Grantaire stammered.

"But it could be. The paper said rain." She pressed her body close to his. "Make love to me, baby."

The boy was in a panic. "Sure. Can we do it in Dad's bed?"

"Okay." She laughed. "Kinky, huh?"

"I'll be right there," Grantaire promised.

She slid out of bed and went into the other bedroom. Grantaire had never dressed faster in his life. He went out the window and headed for Cimarron, Kansas, where Le Gros' carnival was playing. He never looked back. When Le Gros asked Grantaire why he had run away from home, all he would say was, "I don't get along with my stepmother."

Le Gros telephoned Grantaire's father, and after a long conversation, it was decided that the boy should remain with the carnival. "He'll get a better education here than any school could ever give him," Le Gros promised.

 

****

 

The carnival was a world unto itself “We don't run a Sunday school show," Le Gros explained to him. "We're flimflam artists. But remember, sonny, you can't con people unless they're greedy to begin with. W. C. Fields had it right. You can't cheat an honest man."

The carnies became Grantaire's friends. There were the "front-end" men, who had the concessions, and the "back-end" people, who ran shows like the fat woman and the tattooed lady, and the flat-store operators, who operated the games.

The carnival had its share of nubile girls, and they were attracted to the young boy. Grantaire had inherited his mother's sensitivity and his father's dark, good looks, and the ladies fought over who was going to relieve Grantaire of his virginity. His first sexual experience was with a pretty contortionist, Floreal, and for years she was the high-water mark that other women had to live up to. Le Gros arranged for Grantaire to work at various jobs around the carnival. "Someday all this will be yours," Le Gros told the boy, "and the only way you're gonna hang on to it is to know more about it than anybody else does." Grantaire started out with the six-cat "hanky-park," a scam where customers paid to throw balls to try to knock six cats made out of canvas with a wood-base bottom into a net. The operator running the joint would  demonstrate how easy it was to knock them over, but when the customer tried it, a "gunner" hiding in back of the canvas lifted a rod to keep the wooden base on the cats steady. Not even Sandy Koufax could have downed the cats.

"Hey, you hit it too low," the operator would say. "All you have to do is hit it nice and easy."

Nice and easy was the password, and the moment the operator said it, the hidden gunner would drop the rod, and the operator would knock the cat off the board. He would then say, "See what I mean?" and that was the gunner's signal to put up the rod again. There was always another rube who wanted to show off his pitching arm to his giggling girlfriend.

Grantaire worked the "count stores," where clothespins were arranged in a line. The customer would pay to throw rubber rings over the clothespins, which were numbered, and if the total added up to twenty-nine, he would win an expensive toy. What the sucker did not know was that the clothespins had different numbers at each end, so that the man running the count store could conceal the number that would add up to twenty-nine and make sure the mark never won. One day Le Gros said to Grantaire, "You're doin' real good, kid, and I'm proud of you. You're ready to move up to the skillo."

The skillo operators were the crème de la crème, and all the other carnies looked up to them. They made more money than anyone else in the carnival, stayed at the best hotels, and drove flashy cars. The skillo game consisted of a flat wheel with an arrow balanced very carefully on glass with a thin piece of paper in the center. Each section was numbered, and when the customer spun the wheel and it stopped on a number, that number would be blocked off. The customer would pay again for another spin of the wheel, and another space would be blocked off. The skillo operator explained that when all the spaces were blocked off, the customer would win a large sum of money. As the customer got closer to filling in all the spaces, the skillo operator would encourage him to increase his bets. The operator would look around nervously and whisper, "I don't own this game, but I'd like you to win. If you do, maybe you'll give me a small piece." The operator would slip the customer five or ten dollars and say, "Bet this for me, will you? You can't lose now." And the mark would feel as though he had a confederate. Grantaire became an expert at milking the customers. As the open spaces on the board became smaller and the odds of winning grew greater, the excitement would intensify.

"You can't miss now!" Grantaire would exclaim, and the player would eagerly put up more money. Finally, when there was only one tiny space left to fill, the excitement would peak. The mark would put up all the money he had, and often hurry home to get more. The customer never won, however, because the operator or his shill would give the table an imperceptible nudge, and the arrow would invariably land at the wrong place.

Grantaire quickly learned all the carnie terms: The "gaff" was a term for fixing the games so that the marks could not win. The men who stood in front of a sideshow making their spiel were called "barkers" by outsiders, but the carnie people called them "talkers." The talker got 10 percent of the take for building the tip---the "tip" being a crowd. "Slum" was the prize given away. The "postman" was a cop who had to be paid off.

Grantaire became an expert at the "blow-off." When customers paid to see a sideshow exhibition, Grantaire would make his spiel: "Ladies and gentlemen: Everything that's pictured, painted, and advertised outside, you will see within the walls of this tent for the price of your general admission.

However, immediately after the young lady in the electric chair gets finished being tortured, her poor body racked by fifty thousand watts of electricity, we have an extra added attraction that has absolutely nothing to do with the show and is not advertised outside. Behind this enclosure you are going to see something so truly remarkable, so chilling and  hair-raising, that we dare not portray it outside, because it might come under the eyes of innocent children or susceptible women." And after the suckers had paid an extra dollar, Grantaire would usher them inside to see a girl with no middle, or a two-headed baby, and of course it was all done with mirrors.

One of the most profitable carnival games was the "mouse running." A live mouse was put in the center of a table and a bowl was placed over it. The rim of the table had ten holes around its perimeter into any one of which the mouse could run when the bowl was lifted. Each patron bet on a numbered hole. Whoever selected the hole into which the mouse would run won the prize. "How do you gaff a thing like that?" Grantaire asked Le Gros. "Do you use trained mice?"

Le Gros roared with laughter. "Who the hell's go time to train mice? No, no. It's simple. The operator sees which number no one has bet on, and he puts a little vinegar on his finger and touches the edge of the hole he wants the mouse to run into. The mouse will head for that hole every time." Magliore, an attractive belly dancer, introduced Grantaire to the "key" game. "When you've made your spiel on Saturday night," Magliore told him, "call some of the men customers aside, one at a time, and sell them a key to my trailer." The keys cost five dollars. By midnight, a dozen or more men would find themselves milling around outside her trailer. Magliore, by that time, was at a hotel in town, spending the night with Grantaire. When the marks came back to the carnival the following morning to get their revenge, the show was long gone.

 

***

 

During the next four years Grantaire learned a great deal about human nature. He found out how easy it was to arouse greed, and how gullible people could be. They believed incredible tales because their greed made them want to believe. At eighteen, Grantaire was strikingly handsome. Even the most casual woman observer would instantly note and approve his green, well-spaced eyes, tall build, and curly dark hair. Men enjoyed his wit and air of easy good humor. Even children, as if speaking to some answering child in him, gave him their confidence immediately. Customers flirted outrageously with Grantaire, but Le Gros cautioned, "Stay away from the townies, my boy. Their fathers are always the sheriff."

It was the knife thrower's wife who caused Grantaire to leave the carnival. The show had just arrived in Milledgeville, Georgia, and the tents were being set up. A new act had signed on, a Sicilian knife thrower called the Great Batamabois and his attractive blonde wife. While the Great Batamabois was at the carnival setting up his equipment, his wife invited Grantaire to their hotel room in town. "Batamabois will be busy all day," she told Grantaire. "Let's have some fun." It sounded good.

"Give me an hour and then come up to the room," she said.

"Why wait an hour?" Grantaire asked.

She smiled and said, “It will take me that long to get everything ready." He waited, his curiosity increasing, and when he finally arrived at the hotel room, she greeted him at the door, stark naked. He reached for her, but she took his hand and said, "Come in here."

He walked into the bathroom and stared in disbelief. She had filled the bathtub with six flavors of Jell-O, mixed with warm water.

“What's that?" Grantaire asked.

"It's dessert. Get undressed, baby."

Grantaire undressed.

"Now, into the tub."

He stepped into the tub and sat down, and it was the wildest sensation he had ever experienced. The soft, slippery Jell-O seemed to fill every crevice of his body, massaging him all over. The blonde joined him in the tub.

"Now," she said, "lunch."

In the middle of it, the bathroom door flew open and the Great Batamabois strode in. The Sicilian took one look at his wife and the startled Grantaire, and howled, "Tu sei una puttana! Vi ammazzo tutti e due! Dove sono i miei coltelli?"

Grantaire did not recognize any of the words, but the tone was familiar. As the Great Batamabois raced out of the room to get his knives, Grantaire leaped out of the tub, his body looking like a rainbow with the multicolored Jell-O clinging to it, and grabbed his clothes. He jumped out of the window, naked, and began running down the alley. He heard a shout behind him and felt a knife sing past his head. Zing! Another, and then he was out of range. He dressed in a culvert, pulling his shirt and pants over the sticky Jell-O, and squished his way to the depot, where he caught the first bus out of town.

Six months later, he was in Vietnam.

Every soldier fights a different war, and Grantaire came out of his Vietnam experience with a deep contempt for bureaucracy and a lasting resentment of authority. He spent two years in a war that could never be won, and he was appalled by the waste of money and matériel and lives, and sickened by the treachery and deceit of the generals and politicians who performed their verbal sleight of hand. _We've been suckered into a war that nobody wants,_ Grantaire thought _. It's a con game._

The biggest con game in the world.

A week before Grantaire's discharge, he received the news of Le Gros' death. The carnival had folded. The past was finished. It was time for him to enjoy the future.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's NY but they have French names lmao, sorry, but the brick is too precious.   
> I needed a plethora of characters. Victor Hugo already had that covered.

**Author's Note:**

> Mestienne and Gribier were the two gravediggers who met Valjean in the brick, but you knew that already.


End file.
